When I’m departed, flowers on my grave
there will be talk of how I was depraved
theories will abound, but deep underground
I won’t have to hear how I might have been saved

or perhaps perched in heaven, straining to hear more
I’ll think post-mortem gossip was what it was all for
the pundits getting plastered, shouting: pig, prick and bastard
will add fuel to the fire, selling records galore

They’ll say: angel, tyrant, genius, monster
all those lies my life has fostered
the most closeted singer in the history of song
but they’ll be wrong, they’ll all be wrong

he had a million lovers, till the end remained a virgin
he wanted to write novels, he yearned to be a surgeon
his life had no meaning till religion came along
but they’ll be wrong, how they’ll be wrong


From the moment the earth gives way underneath the spade
the malicious trickles will cascade into waves
every pathetic detail will be magnified and retailed
as I teach a generation how not to behave

and still perched in heaven, a smile on my lips
hearing misquoted versions of all my off-hand quips
I’ll recant all the writings, buried by infighting
and reject all quotation of my Freudian slips

They’ll sigh: moron, brilliant, sad-sack, writer
he gave up way too early, till the end remained a fighter
treated women badly yet worshipped them in song
but they’ll be wrong, they’ll all be wrong

he plagiarized each lyric, his muse was like a god
his soul was atmospheric, his mind a drunken sod
his life had no meaning till the Marxists came along
but they’ll be wrong, how they’ll be wrong